


Bitter

by talonyth



Category: Karneval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:21:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talonyth/pseuds/talonyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I would make us coffee, we would sit down and spend some time together, it was really precious to me, and now it is even more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bitter

Coffee is so bitter, but you like it so much, you love it like that. Bitter, black and immensely hot. It suits you, drinking coffee like an adult, unlike me.

I’m older than you but I love it sweet. So sweet that there is not the slightest taste of bitterness left. You’d angrily tell me that it wasn’t coffee anymore but laughed afterwards anyway.

If only you could do that again. Laugh at me, it’s okay, I love to hear you laugh so much.

Only once you tasted mine, only once, and said you would never do that mistake again, that it was liquid sugar I was drinking instead of coffee. But then you looked at me and smiled sheepishly, and I swore I heard you whisper that it suited me so well but when I asked you replied that you said nothing at all.

You would always do that, whispering things without wanting anyone to hear them. But that’s not true, you actually meant to make it audible and I wish I could tell you that I heard.

Despite drinking your coffee so strong, you would still fall asleep easily. I would often find you asleep on the sofa while reading, the book over your face as if you didn’t want anyone to see that you were dreaming of the worlds you encountered in the countless books you always read. I wonder ed if I should make the coffee stronger next time and asked you but you declined. It’s okay as it is, you said. Maybe just a little, you added afterwards quietly.

I heard you, though, and I followed step, and you were happier with it. I asked you why you liked it bitter instead of sweet. You shrugged and seemed to be thinking of a reason, a good reason. I just do was your reply but you were not satisfied with that kind of answer.

A few days later you told me that you liked how coffee tastes when it is both hot and bitter because it gives you an instant feeling of being awake.

I never tried it. I never wanted to. I never got the chance to tell you if it was a good reason.

Every morning I was up earlier than you were which surprised you. You said that you never thought I was a morning person, and frankly, I’m not, really. I can’t easily get up in the mornings and when I told you that you snickered, telling me it’s because I drink my coffee so sweet that it has no effect on me.

Perhaps that’s true. I never thought about it like that but perhaps, if you said it, it might be true. I can’t tell you if it is anymore.

I would make us coffee, we would sit down and spend some time together, it was really precious to me, and now it is even more. Just like that, I can’t do that anymore. Not with you, at least.

I still find myself in the kitchen, making coffee, mine first, I add sugar to it, cream, maybe whipped, and perhaps, if I feel like it, I’ll add marshmellows to it. I remember you saying that was the most disgusting thing you had ever seen and swore never wanting to get close to coffee with marshmellows. You really didn’t, in the end. It’s sad, isn’t it?

Then I make yours so that it won’t get cold. I cover it with a little plate and wrap it up in whatever I find around, hoping that it won’t go cold by the time you sit down.

I place it on your seat but I can’t seem to be able to return back to mine.

It is useless now, no matter how much I wrap it or cover it, it will go cold.

I stare at your seat, it is empty, and it will remain like this too. Today, and tomorrow, and always.

I know that, I really do, and I know you would call me stupid and an idiot for it, but I can’t get rid of this habit. I tried. I tried to get up later so that I wouldn’t have time to sit down and drink coffee. But it didn’t work. I’d rather skip out on work than on this. It’s silly, I know, you’re silly, you’d often tell me.

When I heard you were gone, I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. I always do, everything makes me cry, but this didn’t. What I felt was far worse than any tears I could have shed.

Ever since I feel like I am empty, as empty as your seat remains to be, I feel like I could have saved you if I only tried harder back then. It’s not fair, really, that it had to be you. I wanted to save you. I would have done anything. But in the end, that was not enough, was it?

It doesn’t really matter anymore. Nothing does. The others keep telling me I’ve become reckless. They might be right. I fight more than I used to. I’m not afraid anymore.

Actually, I don’t feel anything at all. Although someone in the back of my head tells me to fight, tells me to revenge, tells me to set it free, it’s just really pointless. I fight and fight and fight for all the wrong reasons. It doesn’t satisfy me, nor whoever tells me to go on fighting.

I don’t care what happens, I can’t bring myself to care anymore, and it is sad, really, because I used to be different. I remember the times in which fighting scared me because I could lose someone. But now that it happened, I’ve become numb to that feeling.

I know, the others are still around too, and I feel horrible that I go into a fight thinking, almost hoping, that I won’t come back anymore. It is a cruel thing to do to people who are genuinely worried.

It’s a lot different than you expected, I guess. I can still hear you telling me that I’m the biggest crybaby and that I should stop being over-emotional. I bet you would be shocked to see me like this and slap me back to my senses. I just wish you could.

A silly idea comes to my mind as I think about everything that happened. Maybe all I need is to wake up. Maybe it is all just a bad, bad dream. Maybe, if only I could try it out. A coffee might help.

I unwrap the mug, push the plate away, lift it to my lips and I can tell that it is burning but I give it a try. The first time, mind you. I hope it will work. I hope for it so badly.

The first gulp hurts, it burns, I can’t even taste it at all. If I put it down, I won’t be able to empty it, so I go on, and with every mouthful of coffee, my throat becomes number but I start feeling the bitterness. It reminds me oddly of how I’m like these days. Numb and bitter. What an ironic and terrible, terrible thought.

I finish it and put the mug back on the table. In the end, the coffee didn’t go cold but I did. I haven’t woken up yet. It will take me forever to wake up. I like my coffee sweet, maybe that’s why. But you aren’t here to tell me that anymore.


End file.
